The Stars and Sea
by Argent Lashana
Summary: Sometimes the help needed to move on came from the last person expected and they became everything you never knew you needed. Dramione - EWE
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** I have long been an avid reader, but this is my first attempt at sharing my writing. I welcome constructive criticism, but ask that you maintain civility. Please remember that this is something that I am doing for my own enjoyment and I am not seeking to professionally publish anything. Know that no review is too small to make a difference to a writer, even a simple 'I liked it' will make my day. I have no official Beta, so if you would like to take up the mantle drop me a line. I am an American writer and natively speak American English, I have tried my best to use proper English phrases and words but I may have failed in certain areas. Please bear this in mind as you read. I hope that you enjoy reading my work as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

 **Disclaimer:** This work of fiction is mine, however the characters and all recognizable features belong to Jo Rowling. This is published for recreation and no profits are being made.

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The war was over. No longer were endless nights and terror filled days spent running through the forest to evade capture. No longer were there monstrous beasts to battle. There were no more artifacts of evil to destroy. No more crazed madmen to battle. No more wondering where their next meal was going to come from. Their friends were safe, the ones that had survived at least, and there was little worry that they would be found in their lair of resistance, hauled out, tortured and killed. There was no family to worry about being involved in battle. None to be punished for the 'sins' of their kin. It was over.

So why did Hermione still feel so haunted?

Life had resumed a modicum of normalcy for the rest of the wizarding world, most people slowly returning to their day to day lives and rebuilding what they lost. True, some lost more than others. Some would never recover fully – George Weasley still paused sentences awkwardly, as though waiting for someone to finish them. By and large, however, the world moved on. The world moved on, but for Hermione Granger things never truly progressed. Anxiety filled her days. Ever vigilant honey eyes watched the people that passed her on the street and in the halls of the Ministry. She wondered where the next attack would come from. Non-perishable food filled her cabinets to bursting, more than a family of four could eat in a month and far more than she needed on her own. She knew she really should donate some of it to charitable organizations, but the thought of going hungry again as she had so often while on the run always made her close the cupboard after looking it over. Her little beaded bag, tatty and worn now, was kept stocked and always within arms reach. Wards were always set around her little flat – so solidly restrictive that only Ron and Harry were able to enter freely without her presence. Even the poor post owls had to wait for her to permit them access to the balcony off the back door. The days were filled with stress and worry, anxiety gnawing at her patience and fraying her nerves as she buried herself in her work.

The days, though bad, did not compare to each night.

When darkness stole over the country leaving streetlights to flicker into luminescence and people returned to their homes she settled into her nightly routine. Hermione Granger was a war heroine. Hermione Granger was the brightest witch of the age. Hermione Granger held an Order of Merlin First Class; one of the youngest ever to do so. Hermione Granger was a torn and scarred young woman who had witnessed so many horrors that she felt she would never be normal again. Hermione Granger hid in her bedroom after checking and rechecking the wards that she held over both her flat and over the individual sleeping area. She tucked herself away in the room that she kept brilliantly lit at all hours. Bright light that was a constant no matter how late it grew in hopes of chasing away the haunting memories of the last few years. She curled up at the headboard of her bed with her knees drawn to her chest and back to the flat oak panel that kept her pillows from wedging between the mattress and the wall. She dozed fitfully each night. An hour or two at most of calm before she jolted awake with her heart feverently trying to beat its way out of her chest. Sometimes she could recall the dreams that awoke her. More often, the witch found herself with an unsettling sense of wrongness and unease that she could not exactly place. Sleep was elusive and troubled many nights even with the potions that she took to help smooth her way into slumber. Frequently she would find herself bolting up with her hand grasping the wand she kept beneath her pillow and searching for a nonexistent threat. More often she curled up with some heavy book filled with meandering words, nodding and snapping awake only to nod again when exhaustion finally claimed her, always waking with a stiff neck and a back that pinched uncomfortably when she tried to sit up and straighten herself.

She knew she should probably seek help. She should attend some sort of therapy, talk to someone about the things she was feeling and doing. Find some little bit of peace. However, every time she would decide that it was time for her to move on and find that bit of resolution, as her hand grasped the now worn business card that Harry had given her for the therapist that he himself used, she balked. It wasn't that she didn't want to move on with her life; she did more than anything else. It was that she felt she didn't deserve it when so many others had been left so much worse. She felt as though she was to blame for things having taken so long to finally achieve a resolution, and thus, did not deserve that peaceful end. She felt that she should have been smarter and figured out where and what all the horcruxes were sooner. She couldn't keep her friends safe from the terrible things that had happened and so she felt she was only receiving the punishment due for her shortcomings. Above all else, she didn't want anyone to know that she, Hermione Granger of the Golden Trio, was struggling. She had to be the strong one, composed and prepared for everything that life threw at her. The rock that held steadfast and supported her friends. She had to be better than those who had fought so hard to eject her from this life, to show that nothing they had done to her had any effect. She had to keep her head high and her cards close to her chest so neither her allies nor her enemies could find fault. To the rest of the world she could never show that Hermione Jean Granger was anything but unphased at her past and flawlessly prepared for the future. Never.

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One hundred and eighty seven days had passed, not that she was counting, since Hermione had entered the pool of singles once more. They had tried to make it work, she and Ron, but somehow things had simply just not come together. Their work drive was too different; she was always on the go while Ronald moved slow and steady toward his goals. Their hobbies didn't mesh even slightly. Quidditch stands and locker rooms were no place to be doing research on the latest mending charms or ancient counter curses, or Pictish fertility rituals (which were not usually for human fertility but primarily for land and livestock, thank you very much). He wanted the kind of household he had grown up in - a home cooked meal on the table each night, the woman of the house maintaining all the cleaning and housework while the man went off to work, evenings sitting by the fire while he relaxed and she did something domestic like knitting or darning socks. The kind of household that she steadfastly declined to run. Two people lived in the house, both could contribute to the day to day cleaning. She wanted a career and keeping a house in that fashion was something she simply would not have time for. Besides, she had never really learned to cook and had no interest in learning to do so at this point, so the best she could manage was simple soups, boxed meals and take away.

It wasn't that they disliked each other, they just wanted such different things out of life and lived so differently that residing together was just not an option if both were to remain content. They had simply fallen out of love and into a more comfortable friendship. Funny how hormones did such strange things to a body in times of stress, drawing two people together in an instinctual drive to create progeny when death seemed imminent. Not to mention the lasting effects of trauma that both carried with them that caused an occasional issue. On more than one occasion while living together they had accidentally spooked each other and drawn their wands in defence with spells half-forming in their mouths. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt.

It had been six months and four days since they had gone their separate ways, her packing up and moving to a flat closer to the heart of London so that she could simply walk to the Ministry's hidden entrance if the weather was nice. Needless to say she'd chosen to live on the muggle side, having grown up in the muggle fashion she found herself able to reacquire the comfort of technology quite nicely, and she found the little bit of anonymity amidst the throngs of muggles comforting. It was nice to be away from where she was likely to see her ex every day.

She was uncomfortable with the fame her position in the war had afforded her amongst the magical, and often found herself wondering if this was how Harry felt as he was growing up. People she had never met often stopped her for a photo or a handshake or simply to talk and ask prying questions that she didn't want to bother responding to. It was not any business of the public how much romance there was between the three of them, how many Death Eaters she had fought, how she felt when facing them, how many she had hurt, how she figured things out. How many she had killed. It wasn't anyone's business, but they acted as though it was their right to know these things. These all too friendly strangers seemed to feel that they deserved to live vicariously through her ability, to get a piece of victory and satisfaction from the child that had fought and suffered while they had holed up in their homes and acted as though nothing was wrong. Of course, after the fact, they deluded themselves into believing they had been with her ideals all along, but simply didn't know what to do. They didn't understand how serious things were. They didn't know that children were suffering. They didn't understand that a part of her hated them more than she did those who had attacked and hunted the Light. They didn't.

These people were cowards; parasites, spineless and mewling, unwilling to stand up and say what was right - to do what was and still is right. Instead they caved at the first sign of pressure or simply turned a blind eye to the Death Eaters rising back into power, as though pretending nothing was happening made it truth. As though this time it would be different. Had even half of the people who claimed solidarity actually been there, given even a token show of resistance, things would have never been so bad. Things would have ended sooner. Things would have been better. Children would not have been tortured in their school. They would not have been forced to commit unforgivable spells to their wands and memories, using hexes on their peers. Children should not have had to grow up so quickly and learn to fight - for some, to kill. They should have been learning to turn pins into porcupines and teacups into treacle. Children should never have had to fight this war with so many adults claiming that they had been supporting the Light the whole time and, oh, how they always knew that Harry Potter was telling the truth. Children shouldn't have, but they were forced to through the inaction of the adults that should have been protecting them, and they died so that these simpering masses could collectively pat themselves on the back and say 'job well done.' It was never the children's war, but they were the ones who had paid the piper anyway.

She really did dislike them, these people who never dirtied their hands.

She did, however, like her little flat with its light red brickwork and peeling white paint and solid wood flooring that was so worn in certain spots from previous tenants that it was a different color. She liked the white walls that she left intentionally bare and the large windows with the thick, faded curtains. The kitchen that she didn't keep nearly as clean as she should and the little table she didn't actually eat at but kept covered in books and paperwork had a way of soothing her the moment she walked in. She liked her old, shabby, orange cat, always curled up on her equally shabby chair or in a sunbeam waiting patiently for his human to come home to feed him, then provide a proper lap to lounge in. She liked the warmth it had held through the final burst of winter and chill of the early Spring thaw. She liked, when windows were thrown open, the cross breeze that cooled it as Spring gave way to Summer. Everything about this place was home, save the creeping loneliness which appeared when she realized how empty it felt.

She would still look up even now after all these months to ask Ron a question or to finish the dissertation she'd been giving over whatever latest text she was reading, only to be reminded that she was talking with only the cat to hear. Much as she loved him, Crookshanks was not the best at conversation, and though he was usually available for a good snuggle it simply was not the same as human contact. She loved Ron and always would, but she was no longer in love with him. She would sometimes idle away a few minutes thinking about someone filling that void in her life. A man who could meet her intellectually, who wouldn't roll his eyes or sigh when she spoke on the intricacies of arithmancy. This mystery wizard could stand with her on equal ground as she battled through law and politics. That same would care about things beyond quidditch, and view her as someone special and deserving. It would be nice to have someone to talk to beyond coworkers. It would be even nicer to be held.


	2. Chapter 2

A rap sounded on the doorway to her office, a soft tapping of knuckles against the already open door, startling Hermione away from the parchment she was reading. She was working on an amendment to a law on non-human person's rights. Currently, as the law stood, only people that had once been human but were afflicted with a condition such as lycanthropy and vampirism had actual rights to the property they held as well as protection from attacks. Half-breeds fell into a grey area regarding most laws. They were not exempt from the current laws but they were also not protected by the Ministry at this time. Non-humans had even less rights. Her addendum, should it pass, would include all sapient creatures to these protections. The fact that some were labelled as 'Beasts' rather than 'Beings' would have no bearing on their rights, it was the species' ability to communicate that would determine their position.

Her brow furrowed as she looked to the source of this unwelcome interruption. It was not an unfamiliar face, certainly, but it was also not one that she had actually expected to see in the offices of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He'd gotten taller since she'd last seen him, filled out since the stress of the war was no longer breathing down his neck. He was still pale and pointed, but adulthood had done favors to the boy and turned him into a man whose familiar features now seemed fully proportioned. The dark circles that had resided under his eyes those last few years faded away. He no longer looked like a frightened child, and the look, she might admit with a moment to think about it, was good on him.

"Malfoy." The word was calm, carefully neutral without hint of the distaste that flavored it in their youth.

"Granger." His response sounded similarly neutral, with perhaps a hint of caution. "Are you busy? I have need… We should speak."

Draco Malfoy shifted slightly, a casual gesture that brought him just inside of the doorway. He placed his weight first on the right foot, then the left - a shuffle he'd never been known for but that, if one didn't know with whom they were speaking, might be mistaken for hesitance. No matter the reason for his out of character behavior, she felt immediately threatened. This was not someone she'd invited to see her, and this was her place of work. It was a second home - or perhaps even a first home, somewhere that she could while away hours without needing to think of anything personal. It was an escape. Her personal success in business was a buffer against her personal life, and someone she knew, someone that she had history with, suddenly being here did not sit well. He'd invaded her little sanctuary and her first instinct was to drive him out.

"Of course, do come in. Please, make yourself at home." Her tone did not match the polite words. As soon as the arch response came forth Hermione internally scolded herself for her manners. What was wrong with her? This was a place of business, he was allowed to enter. She didn't actually own this office, and he'd not truly done anything wrong. He hesitated, hand halfway to his face, taking a moment to look at what he had thoughtlessly grasped. He'd already picked up the small snow globe on her desk and wanted to simply place it back down, but pride refused to give in so totally. A flick of the wrist set the small white particles in motion and, as he sat it back on the table, a trio of miniature deer raced from one side of the clearing to the other in a panic. Draco bit back the automatic snide rebuttal that not even a house elf could find this place homely, and watched his childhood rival, acutely tense, across from him. Naturally nothing could go smoothly when it came to an interaction between him and the muggleborn. Life refused to be that kind.

He cleared his throat and leaned forward. In her seat, Hermione leaned back, as though to keep any distance she could. A subtle rejection that Draco Malfoy noted and did not entirely find surprising. He did not, however, like rejection, and certainly not from her. "Granger." He began again. "I am here to say something of a personal nature."

While he paused as though gathering his thoughts, her mind began to spin in dizzy circles about what he could possibly want to speak to her about. Particularly something he described as 'of a personal nature'. She could determine nothing that she thought qualified in the short span he gave her before he continued. br

"First, I would like to offer my most sincere apologies for my behavior as a child. I would like to say that I had clear, reasonable goals in mind for my myriad of sins to you, but I honestly have no good reason for almost any of it. My childhood had been built upon a foundation of toxic beliefs, and because of them I developed a certain jealousy and disbelief when I considered you. I'd been raised to think myself better than even other pureblood witches and wizards, doted on and taught that by simply being who I am, I was superior. When the time came to attend Hogwarts, that foundation was rocked when Harry Potter rejected my friendship. I had not experienced a rejection of that magnitude from someone with which I cared to associate." He took a breath, and his gaze fell to the floor, unable to meet her eyes any longer or to even look at her face. He didn't think he could stand the inevitable judgement he would find there. "Then you had the audacity to become his friend. You, a muggleborn who had no inkling of our society managed to insinuate yourself into the position that I coveted."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but the Malfoy heir continued on, seeming to not notice her displeasure. "I know you had not done it to spite me. The knowing did not rankle me any less. I was… spoiled. The Boy Who Lived stood center stage at all times, despite my being promised I would have top billing. Not only that, the place I'd have settled for came to you as his friend, where you proceeded to prove that you were better suited. You grades were better. Overall the professors liked you more. You knew things about the history of my people that I didn't - and you weren't even born in this society. I had been told I would be most fit, best loved, first on the road to magical mastery, and at every turn someone was proving that false. More often than not, it was you doing the proving. The first time that I managed something that I could take pride in - a success that was entirely mine and no one else's - you tore that pride away and ground beneath your heel. I thought at the time that I'd have traded your life for that feeling back. You hurt me. That doesn't make it right, but it added fuel to my unacceptable behavior."

"What do you mean? What could I have possibly done to deserve all the things you did to me, Malfoy?" Hermione finally set her quill down as she bristled in indignation. This time when she said his name the neutrality was gone. This time his surname sounded like a curse on her lips. It gouged at his willpower to finish this. It would be easier to leave, and the temptation to do so caused his muscles to tense. Finding resolve, his hands lifted upward, palms facing her in a gesture of supplication and peace.

"I did not say you deserved it, Granger. I said it hurt me and fueled my initial behavior. I know you were not a saint, despite popular belief. You could be just as spiteful as any other child, and often were. I know, and you do, too." His eyes narrowed and lips pursed, a petulant expression that was so reminiscent of their early days at Hogwarts. "In our second year, you said that I had to buy my way onto the Quidditch team. I'm not sure if you even remember that encounter, but it served as a rather pivotal event for me. That day had been a strong contender for the best day of my life until you uttered the words which made it one of the worst. I did not buy my way onto the team. I had followed every rule, dotted every 'i' and crossed every 't' to make certain that I qualified. When my audition came, I was against other boys - other proven seekers. I had to win my position from the boy who had started seeker the previous year. There were no openings in Slytherin - I had to defeat my predecessor. Upon hearing of my success, my father had wanted to reward me personally with a new broom, but I asked if he would instead reward our team - and he gave me that request. I had done it. I had been good enough to ask for something won with my own merit and I had gotten it. Then, in front of the entire team, in the courtyard with all the people I'd gathered to share the news, you tore me down. There was no longer simply a general distaste due to upbringing and jealousy but a personal stake in harming your reputation and standing, so I took it at any opportunity, chasing the dragon of my stolen pride. I simply came here today to offer my apologies for doing so - as an adult I realize that moment wasn't worth the poison I ingested and spewed back at you. While I do not expect a simple 'all's well Draco, want a pint?' I do need to get this off my chest, no matter what you feel. I don't want to taste any more poison."

He lifted his stormy gaze to hers and held there for a moment, refocusing and allowing himself a breath as he reached the conclusion. "So, officially, I am sorry, Hermione Granger. I acted incorrectly and while I had all of the tools at my disposal to realize it, I refused them. While there are others who perhaps also deserve explanation and apology, my interactions with you were the most abhorrent and unacceptable. I wish you well." Not entirely understanding what gesture to make, he simply nodded as though reaffirming his words and turned toward the door.

By the time Hermione had gathered enough of her wits to form a coherent response and rebuttal, Draco Malfoy was gone from her floor and had apparated out of the Ministry of Magic.


	3. Chapter 3

Of all the lessons that one learned over the rather turbulent time attending a 1990's Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a survey of students would likely present a strong case for "Always have a plan" being the most important. One would never know how to proceed without a plan, not without inevitably drawing oneself to misery and doom. It was something that had become ingrained in many of those who had fought in the war and survived, something that was particularly common in the classes of 97, 98 and 99. Planning was good.

Draco Malfoy planned to get very, very drunk on some rather nice 1930 Baron de Sigognac Armagnac. A rather sweet specialty brandy, he had taken this vintage from his father's private liquor cabinet as Stage One of Operation: Blackout. It was worth the reprimand he would get. As he poured his first drink, he swirled the dark amber liquid around and studied the way it slowly slid down the crystal and sighed. The meeting with Granger could have gone worse, he supposed. There was no physical or magical altercation, which is to say that it had gone better than he had expected. It had, however, gone worse than he had hoped.

Damn her. She always found some way to cause him difficulty. He had planned the entire interaction. Every motion. Every word. For weeks now he'd thought this over and over and over, sometimes standing at the end of the hall facing her office door. Naturally, the moment he had crossed the threshold into the office, he'd found himself at a loss. It was only force of will that had kept him from drawing her into a fight simply because that was a more familiar and therefore comfortable situation. Polite interaction with that… His mind paused over the word that he wanted to use there, breaking his train of thought. The once usual mudblood was right out, and muggleborn was only slightly more offensive to his senses. Best to do away with that line of thought all together. She was certainly no longer a girl, but he hesitated to consider her a woman because that put her in a category of thought that was best avoided. There were many aspects of women - from motherly to otherwise - that he could not handle assigning to Hermione Granger. If he began doing that too early in their interaction, then he opened himself to the risk of accidentally deviating from his plan.

Person, he decided. She would simply be referred to as a person for now so that he could hopefully make this work. Whatever this was. Taking a deep sip he leaned back in the chair and studied the fire.

"Well, Draco, as far as plans go this is rather shoddy." He mused aloud, as the glass slowly absorbed the warmth from his hand. The portrait his mother was so fond of, of a girl spinning a parasol in a field, paused her study of the sky to watch him. "You find her, you give a terrible apology that falls just short of baiting her into a fight, then you run off like a kicked puppy before she can accept the apology. Then you pinch your father's liquor and sulk alone in the study while your parents enjoy the caribbean."

Downing the rest of the drink he poured another glass. After all, if he was to follow through with the plan of getting sloshed he had to get to it. Sure, traditionally such a gentleman's drink was to be savored, but he was in a mood. "So, now we begin to… what? Hope that one day she could stand to be in the same room as you without recoiling? Unlikely."

Fixations were dangerous things, his father had always warned him, and they were something that the Malfoy line was prone to. Whether a product of upbringing or an actual hereditary trait, none were sure, but it was fairly well known that amongst their line frequently that which was denied to them would become a small obsession. It had not started as desire, this thing he had for Granger. No, not in the least. It had started as a need to prove himself better than her in any way, whether by pulling himself up or by pushing her down. It didn't matter as long as in some way he could prove himself. He found that was not such a simple task. It didn't matter how hard he tried. No matter the amount of study and extra credit he simply could not beat her grades. It drove him mad that this girl who had grown up outside of proper society seemed to never falter in her grades. She never wavered and never left an opening to exploit.

Years passed after that first encounter that had begun his true fixation. He hated her. Their third year she struck him. Face throbbing and bloody half-moons digging into his palms, he fled, wanting nothing more than to retaliate - but a Malfoy never struck a female. It didn't matter what social caste they were from, a Malfoy did not ever strike a woman. Instead he plotted a revenge that never came to fruition, and as the year came to a close he found he simply did not have time to care over the summer. There was simply too many lovely things to do, such as lounging on the beach in France. Then fourth year came along. That year. That was the year that changed it all.

He'd thought about skipping the ball. Very nearly had. Should have. However Pansy wheedled and whined until he finally agreed to accompany her to the thing. He'd played dutiful escort, every inch the polished little scion to a noble house. He'd danced with her, fetched drinks, played at polite conversation and flirting - all the while watching the enchanting creature that was on the arm of Viktor Krum. How Hermione Granger, plain and frizzy and bookish, had turned into that fey being of grace he would never know. In moments of reprieve from his date he found himself covetously watching her twirl about. The smile on her lips, the swanlike arch of her neck as she tipped her head back and laughed, the delicate shell of her ear peeking out from between the most delicate curls. All of these things anchored his desire. If someone were to be the loveliest girl at the ball, then he deserved to have been with her. Just as, honestly, he deserved the vicious pinch Pansy had given him, even with the dark little bruise on his ribs that followed in its wake and lingered for days. His shoes, however, certainly did not deserve the constant trampling she decided to give them after she had noticed the improper gaze he'd given to the Gryffindor Princess.

That had been the start of his decline into obsession. However his original plan of action in pursuit was swiftly diverted, mostly due in part to that monster that shortly took up residence in his home and threatened his family. The next time he really remembered thinking about her was in potions, several months before he had managed to fix that damnable cabinet. There had of course been other thoughts, some less pure than others, but this was one that stood out in memory. He somehow couldn't help but think that if she had been the one assigned to the task of repairing it the school would have been infiltrated long ago. It seemed like there was nothing that she could not do. No task too great for the Golden Girl after all. She'd been battling terrible things since she was a child, solving mysteries and thwarting assorted sociopaths since she'd entered the wizarding world. Things many adult witches and wizards would have run from, Hermione faced and triumphed over. Time and time again she saved the savior of the wizarding world from all manner of things, ranging from bad grades to escaped prisoners to basilisks. It seemed the only thing she actually lacked was a sense of self preservation. Or, he thought idly, his company.

It still haunted him, that terrible day that his 'troubled' Aunt Bellatrix had brought him in to identify the trio. He knew who they were, of course. How could he not when he'd spent so many years seeing that horrible freckled face, that stupid scar and that awful bushy hair? So he lied. He lied out of fear, because the last thing he wanted was to see the Dark Lord again. He lied because he knew that it would be on his hands if they died. He lied because he knew that he would not be able to hide his anguish if Hermione died. He lied because it was the only way he could save her.

It killed a part of him to know he hadn't been able to save her. He sat on that couch, the piece of furniture that he destroyed later that week because he couldn't stand knowing it even existed still, and watched her. In a fit of fury he'd gone after the antique camelback sofa in muggle fashion, transfiguring a stick into an axe and chopping it into scraps of fabric and kindling, without regard to splinters or the mess he made. He watched her as she writhed in agony under the Cruciatus, refusing to give Bellatrix what she wanted. He watched as that cursed blade dug into her arm and marred the skin with that horrible slur and knew that if she lived that scar would never fade. She screamed and he wanted to take the pain for her. She sobbed and he would have done anything to have been allowed to just sit by her and offer comfort. She begged and anything he had the power to give he would have gladly turned over, even his soul - craven though it was. She bent and held on far after any human should have. Bellatrix had driven people mad under her hand and wand, irreparably damaged and confined to a ward in the hospital for the rest of their days, but she held on to her sanity without giving an inch in return. Hermione Granger bent. She begged and cried and screamed and pleaded. She never broke and all he could do was watch.

He wanted to give her the world. To take it all and lay it at her feet and hang the stars in her crown. To let everyone understand the magic and majesty and power and loyalty of the woman who had genuinely earned all the good in the world. Instead he had done nothing. He had in his darker moments thought that, if he had been willing to give his life for it, he'd have certainly been able to buy her the opportunity to escape. He hadn't. He hated himself for it.

So he chased his demons away with a bottle of brandy as a pastel umbrella spun silently in the portrait above the mantel.


	4. Chapter 4

Several weeks had passed in silence, no further communication between the two since that awkward apology in Hermione's office. At first Hermione had found herself thinking on his words frequently. Her initial urges had been to seek him out and argue her point, but as the days wore on she found more and more that she was willing to try and let the past go. Grudgingly, she admitted that he had done the smart thing by dropping off her radar while she mulled things over. She did have a little bit of a temper at the best of times, and with the lack of sleep she'd experienced the past few days it had only shortened her fuse during his visit. She kept meaning to send an owl communicating her thoughts but each time she would go to write she found herself distracted by something else. Eventually she wound up pushing the incident to the back of her mind as she geared up to fight for her amendment before the Wizengamot. Soon she had all but forgotten the odd day and the agitated days that followed.

Confidently the war heroine had entered the court to present her case. Passionate words flowed from her, sometimes beseeching and sometimes admonishing without seeming to need to catch her breath. It were as though she felt that if she paused to let the Wizengamot have even a single word in edgewise, all would be lost for case. That was until she scanned to see those cool grey eyes gazing down at her set into Draco Malfoy's dispassionate face. He looked nice, better than nice if she was being honest, in his powder blue suit and silver tie. He was a piece of the winter sea condensed into human form, some fantasy prince from a storybook. She wondered at the small urge she had to see if he smelled of salt as well, if he would melt into foam should she try to touch him, but she shook the fanciful urge away and continued with her presentation. Hermione was nothing if she was not focused and she pushed forward with only a brief pause.

"In conclusion, gentlemen and ladies, you will find that not only is it morally unjust to allow the continued abuse of these entities but it is also an active crime that we are committing against them. If we are to hold ourselves as the arbiters of justice then as a people we are obligated to protect all sapient beings from these sorts of crimes - especially if they are being committed by one of our own. I implore you to strongly consider passing Amendment 73R-4178 200qer to the Guideline for Treatment of Non-Human Persons. Thank you." She'd been talking for nearly half an hour now. Her throat was dry and several pairs of eyes were watching her vacantly. She doubted that they actually paid attention to the things she'd said after the first minute or two and would pass or deny on their own personal assumptions. She found herself caught up in that previously ignored smouldering gaze as the vote was called.

"All those for Amendment 73R-4178 200qer." Was called out in a bored drawl. To her surprise Draco Malfoy raised his hand and cast his gaze across the board, breaking eye contact with her. "All those opposed." In the end her amendment passed by a margin of just three people. Somehow she felt that had Malfoy not been there it very well would have been skewed in the other direction, but having no proof she graciously accepted the verdict and left. She vowed to at least send him an owl letting him know she harbored no ill will.

«·´`·.(*·.¸(`·.¸* *¸.·´)¸.·*).·´`·»

When an owl arrived that evening at his window, Draco had been more than a little irritated at the late disturbance. Grumbling, he slipped from his bath, leaving the Firewhiskey decanter on the edge of the tub but taking the glass with him as he opened the window. Everyone knew that it was simply rude to send an owl that would arrive after dark unless it was urgent, so he shooed the bird off without giving it a treat. Wrapping the towel around his waist, dripping onto the plush cream carpet in front of the vanity, he eyed the parchment that he had snatched out of the bird's talons. It wasn't even good quality parchment, the cheap stuff that one bought in bulk like they had used in school for first draft essays or taking notes. Thumbing it open, he read.

The ire melted from his form, first from his brows that had been pulled together over his eyes. Then his scowl lifted, the left side of his mouth lifting in an indolent smirk. Finally his posture fell, the man leaning against the wall to his right as he reread the words on the page for a fourth time. It was a short note on cheap paper with even cheaper ink, but right now it was the most precious thing he owned.

Malfoy -

I've done a lot of thinking and I have decided that it would be best if I also offered my apologies for my behavior as a child. You were correct, I was not always as kind to you as I could have been. I am also sorry for my behavior as a girl and can only say that I hope I have improved as a person now that I have grown.

I accept your apologies and forgive all your transgressions against me to date. Children tend to have a lot of societal progress to make in their formative years and ours was more stressful than most. I hope that you can find it in yourself to do the same for me. At the very least I hope that we can continue civilly and work on building a peaceful future. Please also excuse the lateness of this letter, I've been remiss in my time management. If I failed to send it off tonight I would have likely forgotten as I have for some time now before this.

Thank you for your vote today, I don't think it would have passed without your approval. I hope that this letter finds you and yours well. Have a pleasant evening.

-Hermione Granger

Such a plain thing that she had sent, but he felt that she had offered him an olive branch. Hope blossomed in his chest as he carefully folded the paper back up and stored it away in his desk along with a bit of guilt as his abrupt dismissal of the owl that had brought him the missive. He really should have given the poor thing a treat of some sort. It had brought him a sliver of salvation, after all. He slipped under the blankets, the black silk of his pajama bottoms sliding pleasantly against the sheets. Like a cat he stretched and filled the space before rolling to the right and settled on the pillow. What would it be like, he wondered, to have someone on the pillow to the left? He idly imagined a warm body beside him, steadily breathing as she slept. A mass of brown curls invading his face as he drew close, the phantom of the heady scent of amber and orchids filling his senses as he inhaled the bouquet of her shampoo. Somehow he knew, hoped, that she would slip seamlessly into his life. Into the places he'd subconsciously left empty for her.

By the time he'd remembered that he'd had a glass of whiskey and had located it on the vanity table the ice had melted completely. Tonight, it seemed, he didn't need to indulge in the unhealthy habit of self medication.

Over the next few days that same letter was reread on more than one occasion. He found himself reaching out to touch the parchment as he worked, soothing him. She'd forgiven him, and her Gryffindor nature would not have let her lie about this. She hoped that they could be civil, did she? He could be civil, and then some. Soon she would find out exactly how pleasant he could be for company, and what a peaceful future they would have. Together.


End file.
